


one-sided conversations with a peanut shell

by cyndakip



Series: the price of perfection [3]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Canada Moist Talkers (Blaseball Team), Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Season 8, Season 9, dot technically doesn't appear in this but it's all about them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyndakip/pseuds/cyndakip
Summary: The team has a lot to say, now that Dot can't hear them.
Series: the price of perfection [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969006
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	one-sided conversations with a peanut shell

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here I go posting things out of order again! I've been picking away at this one ever since Dot was shelled, though, and I really just want to get it out there. This is basically just an assortment of scenes spanning season 8 and 9. I would have liked to include more of the team, but I think this is long enough as it is. ~~plus if I'm being honest I don't know how to go about writing half of them~~

A large peanut sits on the Moist Talkers’ field, quiet and unmoving. Ortiz Morse steps up to it and reaches out one hand, knocking politely on the shell.

“Hello,” he taps. “If there’s anything that can reach you in there, it’s probably my way of communicating, though Mooney says you probably can’t hear even that. But I hate to think of you all alone in there, so I'll do what I can to keep you company, even if you don't know it until you're out.”

“We've tried just about everything, but none of it has worked. I hate to say it, but you'll probably just have to wait until the birds decide to set you free.” Morse sighs. “Quack even tried to peck you out of there, but he doesn't have the right kind of beak for it, and he's only one bird.” He looks up to the sky as if hoping that more might appear despite the empty field, but there are no wings to be seen.

“We're doing the best we can without you. It should have been me, they could get by without  _ me _ , but I guess that's exactly why it couldn't have been me. It’s only the best players who get idolized, even though everyone knows the consequences now.” He shakes his head. 

“I hope you're comfortable in there. I hope you can rest. You sure don't deserve to be in there, but you deserve to rest. You always work so hard, even if it might not seem that way to you.” He pauses for a moment, considering. “I guess all this tapping isn't very restful, if you can hear it. I'll leave you alone for now.”

* * *

Ziwa Mueller stands on the field, hands in their pockets, alone except for the ever-quiet shell in front of them. They’ve been staring at it for a while now, equally silent.

“...Hey,” Ziwa says finally. “I know this looks weird, me talking to a giant peanut. You probably don’t even know I’m talking to you, but... I dunno, it seems wrong for us to ignore you completely, especially after everything that’s happened. So I'm gonna talk to you even if it makes me look crazy. Guess I need someone to listen who can't judge me. Or at least if you're judging me, I don't have to know about it.”

They take a deep breath.

“I don't even really know what I want to say to you. I just… I hate this. I hate that we're losing so many teammates and there's nothing I can do about it. We tried so hard to save you, you know? And it wasn't enough. I know you probably won't be in there forever, but as long as you are, it's just another reminder that I keep failing.” Ziwa kicks the shell angrily. 

Nothing happens.

“We  _ did _ try, I promise. I know you wanted to save York, and you did, but we wanted to save you too. Yeah, we’ve had some rough patches lately, but that doesn’t mean any of us are glad to see you trapped in there. I can't imagine the team without you. I don't think anyone can. I hope you know that we really do miss you.” 

“I guess what I wanted to say is... I'm sorry. I said it back when you could actually hear me, but. Well. It’s worth repeating.” 

Ziwa slips back into silence again, standing there for a moment longer before finally turning away.

* * *

_ Thwack. _

The blaseball bounces off the peanut shell and onto the ground. Jenkins scoops it up and throws it again.

_ Thwack. _

“Bet  _ you _ could throw hard enough to break someone out of there.”

_ Thwack. _

The shell does not respond. 

“I figured if I'm going to be practicing anyway, I might as well see if I can crack this open. It's probably not going to accomplish anything beyond annoying you, if you can even feel this at all, but I’d guess your alternative is probably endless boredom, so…” 

_ Thwack. _

“Or can you even get bored? It's probably impossible when there's so much going on in your head.”

_ Thwack. _

“Maybe you can’t even think at all when you’re in there. Maybe it’s just… nothing. Maybe it’s good to have a break from experiencing so much. But what would I know?”

_ Thwack. _

“You know, I was surprised when I first met this version of you. In my universe you never got a blessing. You were just an average pitcher on another team that I never thought much about.”

_ Thwack. _

“I'm sure the other you is still out there having a great time pitching. Who knows, maybe they’ve even managed to become friends with other me, since they've both got something to talk about now.”

_ Thwack. _

“I’ve always wondered how other me felt when you joined the Moist Talkers. I know everyone says the other Jenkins was glad to have a chance to work with you, but how did they really feel, deep inside? Overshadowed? Replaced? Unnecessary?” 

_ Fwump. _

The ball sails past the peanut, landing harmlessly on the ground. Jenkins doesn't move to retrieve it.

“I don't know. Guess I never will. But I know how  _ I _ feel now.” Jenkins’ eye flickers as they stare at the shell. “I thought I'd be grateful for some time in the spotlight again, but I'm not. It feels wrong for me to be our best pitcher. I don't want all this pressure. I don't…” Their voice falters. “I don't want to do this without you.” 

Having said more than they expected to, Jenkins turns away, leaving the ball on the ground next to the peanut. 

No one picks it up.

* * *

“Well,” Greer says, hands on her hips, studying the shell. “Heard the others have been trying to talk to you. I don't see much point in joining in when there’s no way you can hear me, but I guess I might as well provide something.”

She pulls out her cardboard cutout and places it next to the peanut. “Here. You two can look after each other.”

Once she's halfway across the field, Greer turns back, as if she wants to say something after all, but then shakes her head and keeps going.

* * *

“I'll probably have to tell you this again when you get out,” Ziwa says, staring at the ground rather than the shell. “But I think it's only fair that I do it now, in case you can hear me. Because you need to know. He was still our teammate, even if he was on a different team when he --” 

Ziwa stops, stumbling over a word they’ve had far too much practice saying lately. 

“It's Hobbs,” they whisper instead, finally. They don't say anything more.

* * *

The stadium is quiet in the evening, the game over, the fans gone home, the day faded away. The peanut shell sits alone. The team decided long ago that it's best to just leave it there, in the hopes that some birds might come to peck Dot free despite the lack of a crowd.

No birds appear, but  _ something  _ is always visible at the edge of the field sooner or later, approaching slowly from multiple directions, combining into an ever-shifting mass, oozing over the ground. 

The amalgamation of the stadium’s garbage settles in next to the peanut, her only source of companionship once the others have gone home. Eugenia has learned that life in an empty arena only gets lonelier with the thought of more and more faces who will never be there to help fill it again. The shell has no words of comfort to offer, but it’s  _ there _ , and so is she. 

* * *

Today, the peanut is visited in a crowded stadium, though the team has respectfully shuffled to one side of the dugout so it can be approached in relative privacy.

York Silk slips over from the Fridays’ bench, Crocs squeaking on the moist terrain. He stands in front of the figure towering over him, suddenly hesitant.

“...Dot?”

The shell, of course, does not respond.

“I know I'm not supposed to be over here so close to the start of the game, but I just wanted to say thanks for what you did. I know someone had to do it, and I wanted it to be me, I wish everyone didn’t always feel like they have to protect me, but it was really… it was… Well, thanks.”

There’s a shout from the field.

“Guess I gotta go.” York straightens up, managing a grin. “I hope the birds peck you free before the end of this game, because I want you to see the home run I’m gonna hit!” 

But the birds do nothing of the sort, no matter how many times York looks over hopefully throughout the game. 

The Moist Talkers have given up looking.

* * *

“Hey, it's me again. Lachlan. Remember? Yeah, I'm surprised to be back here too.” He half-smiles. “Everyone's happy to see me, but... it's not the same  _ everyone _ , you know? You can't even see me at all, or probably hear me…” he trails off. “Now I feel kind of silly to be doing this, but the others do it, and I don't want to be known as the guy who couldn't be bothered to talk to you. Because I do miss talking to you! Not that you were ever the most talkative person, of course, but sometimes it felt like the team kind of... forgot I was there? You never did, though, and even if you just nodded to me when I came in the room, I always appreciated it.”

“...I should have said that earlier, huh? I'm not sure if you knew. I mean, I know you know a lot of things, but, don't take this the wrong way... I don't think you really know that we care? Because we do, and I guess we should say it more often instead of just  _ oh, thanks for winning another game for us _ .”

Lachlan pauses for a moment.

“I guess I've been thinking a lot about that, lately. I'm not even a good player, and sometimes people give me a bit of a hard time about it, but at least I know that they like me as a person, you know? So when you get out of there I'm going to say  _ Hey, Dot, I care about you! _ and you're probably going to say something like  _ Lachlan? What are you doing here? Is this Charleston? How many of us got traded? _ ”

He grins. “Or maybe you'll say _ I heard everything, and I wish I had heard less of it, would you please stop talking? _ Wouldn’t blame you for that.” 

The smile starts to slip off his face. “I guess it doesn't matter what you say. I just want to hear you say anything.”

Lachlan paces around the silent peanut a few times before he continues talking. “I really am glad to be home, but... it doesn't feel as much like home now, with so many friends gone. It’ll be like coming back to a different team, when you get out. I can’t imagine how that would feel. At least the rest of us have some time to try and adjust to the changes one by one.”

Another moment of silence passes before his phone suddenly vibrates, jolting him to alertness. 

“I almost forgot! The team is meeting up for donairs to celebrate me coming back, which is really nice of them, so I'd better get going. Wish you could be there, but we'll throw you an even bigger party when you're out, okay? I'll make sure of it.”

With a few backward glances, Lachlan jogs off, leaving the peanut to sit in silence once again.

* * *

“Hello again,” Morse knocks. “I'm only just now having the chance to talk to you today. Seems like everyone else has been out here. I've overheard bits of what they're saying and they're all going on about the no-hitter, so I'll spare you yet another recap. I don't know why they're making such a big deal out of it.” 

He smiles faintly. 

“It should have been you. I'm sure it would have been, if you weren't stuck in there. Feels like we're playing twice as hard without you, and I guess it leads to games like that. But I'd rather you were here. We all would. And I know you think it's just because you're our best pitcher, but it goes beyond that. We'd still be so happy to see you if you came out of that shell with no stars, having completely forgotten how to throw a blaseball.” 

Morse chuckles. “Not that I think you ever could, of course. But I mean it when I say that we care about you. I know you care about us too, in your own way. I guess we all need to get better at showing it.”

“We’ll all be waiting right here for you until you're free, Dot. We miss you.”

* * *

A lone figure walks onto the field with hesitant steps, looking around as if half-expecting to be ordered to leave. No one else is around, however, and the path to the peanut is uninterrupted.

Jaylen Hotdogfingers places one flickering hand on the shell. “Hey, Dot.” 

She pauses, gathering her thoughts. 

“Morse... Morse told me he tried to talk to you every day, even though you probably can't hear, so I'm going to do the same for as long as I'm here. Which probably won't be very long.” Jaylen laughs, though there's no humour in it. “This is definitely easier than talking to the rest of your team.” 

“... _ My _ team. They're my team now, too.” She shakes her head, as if she can't believe it. “They're not exactly happy about it, but I don't blame them. I wouldn't want me here either.” 

“I guess I should have led off with this, though I'm sure you’ve figured it out if you can hear me…” Jaylen watches her hand flicker again and brings it back down, closing her eyes. “I got swapped for Morse. The team’s not taking it well, even factoring out the whole “we have to work with the undead menace who’s directly responsible for the incineration of three of our teammates” situation. I know he was the heart of your team, and... well, I'm sorry. I didn't want this to happen.  _ Any _ of it. But you know that.”

“God, I wish you weren’t trapped in there. You're the only one here who doesn't hate me at least a little bit.” She places her hand on the shell again, watches the flickering. “I'd trade places with you, if I could. I'm better off in there, even if my pitches don't kill anybody anymore.”

She’s quiet for another moment, visions of flame and ash flashing behind her eyes.

“I probably won't even get to see you before I'm gone to some other team. You'll come out of there and everyone will have to tell you everything all over again, and I'll be gone and they'll say  _ oh, Jaylen was here, but only for a little while, which was already far too long, and she’s the reason Morse is gone _ . I would have liked to have the chance to work with you, you know.”

She sighs. “The Garages were my home. When I came back and the world had changed so much, at least Seattle was a familiar place with many of my old teammates, even if they ended up being less than thrilled to have me back. Now... I don't know if I'll ever feel like I'm home again. Did you feel this lost, when the gods made you into something new and then you were traded two seasons in a row? Do you still?” 

“...Why am I asking you questions? You’re not going to answer.” 

“Soon, though,” she says after a moment, clenching her flickering hand into a fist. “Soon you will. We can talk when all this is over, if it ever is. I need to believe that it will be. Wyatt has a plan, and we're going to get everyone out. Just hang on a little longer, okay?”

* * *

The Moist Talkers have a plan, too.

Another season has come and gone, the Talkers still denied a playoff spot and Dot still denied freedom. The whole team is on the field, now, gathered around the shell, waiting. Waiting for a god who may or may not help them, waiting to see if their plan will work, waiting to see if things will go wrong. The Talkers have always been risk-takers. They don't intend to stop now, and so they stand together, looking up at the sky, waiting.

Inside the shell, Dot sleeps on, unaware of how much the world has changed, and how much change is still to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Some thoughts:
> 
> \- I originally wasn't going to do anything with the idea of Dot saving York, but now that he's on our team and everyone is revisiting it, I figured I'd work it in! I’m definitely very interested in the connection between Dot and York, and I'd like to write more about the two of them later. ~~in fact I have already started but I'm not sure if it'll be good enough to post and I have too many other things to work on. help~~
> 
> \- Speaking of things I want to write, I've always been very interested in the dynamic between Dot and Jenkins both pre and post alternate, and I'll probably do something with that eventually.
> 
> \- I'll be honest, I love Eugenia Garbage but I have no idea what to do with her. Can she even talk? I don't know!
> 
> \- I have always been a fan of Lachlan and I will continue to appreciate him even if nobody else does. 
> 
> \- I'm so glad I got the opportunity to include Jaylen! (I mean, I would rather we still had Morse, but at least I got to make something out of it.) Dot’s thoughts on Jaylen are something you'll get to see in another fic I'm working on, but the TLDR is that they can very much empathize with her being an unwilling instrument of the gods. Not so much for the rest of the team, though, which leads to the aforementioned “rough patch” between Dot and the others. Gloom’s beaning and subsequent incineration was not a fun time for anyone…


End file.
